voided all danger of Father Beckett
suspecting the weakness she hides. But you can imagine, Padre, knowing
me as you do, how frightened I was to-day--our morning for Noyon--lest
she should give the signal. I felt I simply couldn't _bear_ to miss
Noyon. No use telling myself I shall feel exactly the same about
Soissons to-morrow, and Roye and Ham and Chauny and various others the
day after. My reason couldn't detach itself at that instant from Noyon.

Our daily programme as now arranged is: Me to knock at Mother Beckett's
door half an hour before starting-time. If she's fearing a collapse, she
is to exclaim: "My child, how pale you are!" or some other criticism of
my complexion. Then I'm to play up, replying: "I do feel under the
weather." Whereupon it's easy for her to say: "You must stop in the
hotel and rest. I'll stay with you."

To my joy, the greeting this morning was: "My dear, you look fresh as a
rose!"

I didn't feel it; for you know I wrote late to you. And at last in bed,
I disobeyed your advice about never worrying: I worried quite a lot over
Brian and Dierdre O'Farrell; my having led him into a trap, when above
all things I wanted his happiness and health. I could well have passed
as pale: but I was so pleased with the secret signal that I braced up
and bloomed again.

We had to start early, because there was a good deal to do in the day;
and we were supposed to return early, too, for a rest, as there's the
great adventure of Soissons before us to-morrow. The Correspondents'
Chateau wasn't on our list: that was an accident, though now it seems as
if the whole trip would have been worth while if only to lead up to that
"accident!"

There were several ways we could have taken to Noyon, but we took the
way by Dives and Lassigny. We shall have chances for other roads,
because, to see various places we mean to visit, we shall go through
Noyon again.

Once upon a time, before the Germans came, Dives had a lovely chateau,
part of it very old, with a round turret under a tall pointed hat; the
other part comparatively young--as young as the Renaissance--and all
built of that pale, rose-pink colour which most chateaux of this
forestland, and this Ile-de-France used to wear in happy days before
they put on smoke-stained mourning.

Now, instead of its proud chateau, Dives has a ruin even more lovely,
though infinitely sad.

As for Lassigny, it was battered to death: yet I think it was glad to
die, because the